


There is Dust Everywhere

by anapiesn



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Parent Tony Stark, Pepper Potts Is a Good Bro, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Pepper Potts, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23423296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anapiesn/pseuds/anapiesn
Summary: You know, trigger is a random mother-fucker.Because see, it’s a Tuesday afternoon and you’re minding your own business, going through the motions just like any other day, and suddenly, suddenly, it’s the deep end.There is baby powder (dust) everywhere.-
Relationships: Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	There is Dust Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> So....Quarantine, huh?
> 
> This is my first Tony/Avengers fanfic (or first fanfic to ever be posted) so I guess I'm a bit happy about it? I don't know. 
> 
> Okay, first things first (?): this kind of describes a panic attack? But it's more or less based on my personal experiences of traumatic flashes thrown out in your face, so if anybody feels it poorly describes said situation, I'm sorry! With most of my friends and me, when having these conversations about our fears/trauma, there's a tendency to direct it in some way so there's comedy thrown in to it so that's kind of what I wanted to do here... Also, it doesn't actually mention suicide, but I guess it skates over the gist of it and I thought I'd better be safe then sorry (regarding warnings). 
> 
> Second thing: I wanted to skirt around Tony's more sensible side since it's something that seemed to have been beaten out of him by his father's verbal abuse in the comics. So I don't know how many of you are going to find his character a little OOC, but I stand by it, I guess. 
> 
> And last but not least: English isn't my first language, so I'm actually really interested in any constructive criticism regarding structure, coherency etc. 
> 
> I really like critiques/feedback, even if it's negative (no low-blows though), sooo....Hope you guys enjoy it! 
> 
> xoxo  
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

You know, trigger is a random mother-fucker.

Because see, it’s a Tuesday afternoon and you’re minding your own business, going through the motions just like any other day, and suddenly, suddenly, it’s the deep end.

Just because maybe you were a little bit off, maybe you were bit _sadder_ , maybe you were a bit _bitter_ even, the point is: you are living the best way you know how and then you happen to let your guards down for a millisecond and well _…_ everything goes to shit.

You’re minding your own _goddamn_ business and all of a sudden you’re a sobbing, poor excuse for a human being, lying on the floor and yanking your hair out.

Trigger has no qualms for dignity either.

A movie just a tad too graphic, a book just a smidge too overwhelming. Somebody said something at the bar, (for them meaningless; for you, meaning- _full),_ somebody said something in the goddamn grocery store and you can’t even remember what the hell it was, or even maybe it’s something so little like killing an itsy bitsy spider - and oh _God_ , maybe don’t even go there?

So, trigger.

Random, mother-fucker.

It’s a spiral out of control, really. A gut-wrenching, jaw-breaking, teeth-pulling, heart-clenching kind of hit. All you can see is this turvy reality ‘cause there are fucking tears in you eyes and your mind went to _shit_ because nothing is at all making sense: nothing is tangible and time has a whole different meaning, ‘cause you’re thinking and _living_ what you knew were _memories_ , not what’s in front of you, and - where are you again?

The ache does not stop and you want to curl up and die, right then and there because your skin is crawling with things you can’t say and you’re gasping to scream but _where are you?_ The timeline’s all crossed and you can’t seem to understand if you are _here_ or if you are _there_.

That’s panic, y’know. That awful displacement and a loose grip on reality. The hauntings of trauma spat on your face when you can’t get it off.

And really, just because your baby girl accidentally kicked the baby powder and there’s dust _everywhere_?

It’s pathetic on a whole new level.

He knows that. Really does. But Tony cannot, for the life of him, get up.

His sweet little baby girl is on her crib (and he wonders how he’d managed that, but maybe the universe threw him a bone) but she’s still without a diaper, and that’s surely coming back to bite him in the ass, but he cannot. Stop. Crying.

There is baby powder (dust) _everywhere._

It’s in his face, his nose and eyelids. It’s in his hair (that’s gonna be a _bitch_ to clean), his goatee, (he’ll have to shave the whole thing _off_ ) and in his ears. It’s in his wrinkles for crying out loud (and isn’t he?), but mostly, mostly, it’s in his heart.

There is dust and emptiness where once was the beginning of fulfilment.

It’s something so sad his heart aches like he didn’t really know it could. It twists his stomach too. The vision of somebody so young, so desperately young, trying so hard to keep on holding that youth, that…breath of life. And just because life in itself was really just a breath, his grasp loosened and, as quick as a snap, it vanished.

Blown in the wind.

Oh sweet Jesus, he can’t ever hear Bob Dylan _again._

Gone with an apologetic good-bye, like he shouldn’t have been screaming at Tony for letting it get to this.

Tony sobs harder now and brings a fist in to his mouth to restrain the loudness of it. The desperateness of it. But he doesn’t really want to that much, it’s more for the sake of his wife and his sweet baby girl.

What Tony really _wants,_ is to scream until his throat is raw.

Wants to die, to punch, to hit, to murder, to set himself on fire, to explode and at the same time, he just wants to _stop_ and be granted the blissfulness of being numb.

But he can’t, can’t let himself fold. Can’t let himself off the hook and not wake himself up in the morning to be there for his remaining family. All he has to do right now is live and be kind and present for his child and wife, and even though being alive is killing him, he wouldn’t deign to die right now.

He knows this. Yet still.

Some would argue that it wouldn’t have mattered, that the snap was just as random as a cold but he didn’t care. He felt the weight of murder as heavily as Thanos, who sacrificed a daughter willingly. 

He felt he had sacrificed a son.

 _“This is a one-way ticket, you understand?”_ He had told the boy.

But he was the one that hadn’t understood _shit._

He wasn’t any better than that purple tyrant with a nut-sack for a chin.

And that thought alone, made him spread his arms on the floor and hit it hard with his fist, giving in the urge to let a guttural choke and a sob to follow, before leading his hands back on to his hair, where he grabbed at it with all the despair that he felt. He let the tears flow down, his pride hurting and thanked the heavens Pepper still hadn’t come around to find him in this -

“Honey?”

Oh, come _on._

He knows how this looks and he’ s mortified. He knows there’s still underlying quality of fragility in him, and it’s sadly pointed out to him by his father’s mocking voice. He always feels as if he failsher as a man, most likely the way his father predicted he would. He never actively sought out to make himself a stronger man, preferring deflection in most of his relationships. But ever since she entered his life in that whole new role, he tried. He tried so hard, just like he did when he was little and tried to make his dad at least _like_ him a little. But for all his wit, nothing seamed to make up for this inclination to be overwhelmed by his aching and sadness and he always ended up feeling as if he’s failing her (always letting her fall).

He knows he should straighten up and brush it off. Get a grip and cough it up as something infinitesimal and hardly worthy of her time.

But all he can do is keep on laying there with white baby powder all over his face, and the feeling that something is going to tear him in half.

He’s ripping at the seams and it _shows_.

“Um…what…happened?”

If he didn’t know any better, he would have said she sounded amused.

“I…Um. B-baby powder.” He coughed, trying to choke out the words. He blinked at the ceiling, and still felt his eyes pull on the darker corners, so he coughed again and finished: “Um, exploded. It’s… _everywhere._ ” His voice is gruff and soft at the same time.

He can feel himself shaking but fools himself into believing it came out steady.

She’ll tell him later, it didn’t.

He hears a snort, but he knows better.

Suddenly, he can feel her approaching. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees her going over to their daughter’s cradle, roaming around a bit. After she’s done with what probably was a way to make their child free of future misdemeanours of the eschatological kind, he makes out her from coming by his side and it makes his heart rate go up again. He doesn’t want her near, doesn’t want her seeing the pathetic excuse for a man that she married and doesn’t want her to do anything helpful because he’ll just be ashamed that once again, she had to get a grip for both of them.

So he tries to move, but can’t and it’s making him dizzy again.

“I won’t touch you, y’know. It’s okay. I’m just going to lie here, by your side.” Her tone is delicate and smooth, just above a whisper, but steady.

When he opens his mouth to respond, she’s already lying on her back and he struggles to get something out, but nothing comes. A rasp sound in the back of his throat but he doesn’t know if he imagined it or not.

His throat feels raw and he still feels the tears going down the sides of his face. He can’t look at her, can’t disentangle his hands from his hair.

“You’re gonna go bald like that.”

He sniffs.

“See the ceiling? The fan was a nice touch, y’know. Kudos to you. Really should have considered giving design a go at one point. You would be great at it, with your obsession for aesthetics and all.”

He tries to pay attention. The fan.

It _was_ a nice touch.

“I also love the floor. It’s scent, even though it’s probably a little dirty. Hey, y’know, it actually feels a little bit clean, how ‘bout that. The wood, so nice and smooth. Can you feel it, honey?”

He blinks once.

Twice.

God, he loves this woman.

“Oh, maybe you can’t though. Can I push up your shirt a bit? Just so you can feel it on your lower back? I’ll barely touch you. Is that okay?”

He gives a sharp nod.

He can feel her reaching down and very lightly, very slowly, with the tip of her fingers, brings the hem of his sweater up, so that his lower back does come in contact with the cold feeling of the wood.

“Good, huh?”

He let’s out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slowly disentangles his hands from his hair, leading them to his sides so he can feel the cool floor with his fingertips too.

“Y-yeah.” It comes out a croak.

“The fan does make a bit of a humming though. Can you hear it?”

He can.

“I wonder if it irritates Morgan…Or calms her. I don’t know. What do you think?”

He thinks this woman is a thousand times better than anything he ever deserved.

“…I think it probably lulls her.” His voice is softer and he can feel himself melt a bit on the floor, the tension slowly moving away from him.

“Yeah….maybe it does.” He makes out her form stretching and wonders how she’d managed to still have such a lithe figure even after giving birth.

They stay like that for a few more minutes, her steady and soothing voice pinpointing tangible forms through the room, reminding him of where he is and how he got there in that subtle, charming way of hers. At one point she scoots closer so that her hand is in his hair, tugging lazily and he feels the tension ease out completely but he can’t stop the tears. He still has the urge to scream, but it’s less aggressive and more of a surrender to the strain in his heart, a mellow sadness that envelops. There’s a surrender to the grief that’s been holding his heart in such a constraining grip. The sobs are fairly subdued, but they rock his body just the same.

He isn’t surprised when she comes closer. He knows she can sense he’s more sad than anything else. More miserable than completely paralysed by his anxiety and panic. And because of that, he lets her manage herself so her head is in his chest, an arm wrapped around him. His own arm closes in so that his hand is resting on her shoulder and he turns his head slightly so that he can kiss her on that beautiful, strawberry blonde, lavender scented, hair. The feelings of inaptitude also dissipate from him, shooing away as Pepper’s love and serenity shines a light in the darkness of his heart, engulfing him in warmth and as undeserving he may be, he’s still a selfish son a bitch that holds on to this beacon of mercy.

So because she’s the light of his life, he lets himself sob and ache in her presence, while she massages his shoulder and kisses his neck gently. His other hand is covering his eyes while the other still holds her by the shoulder, rubbing soothing circles that he knows she knows aren’t for her benefit.

It’s probably an hour or so, when he finally speaks. His eyes are hurting and he’s got snot all over his left hand sleeve. Pepper is still wrapped around him and her hand has lowered to his waist, where she’s tracing the hem of his sweatpants.

“I’m sorry.” He manages.

He feels empty now and somehow it seems better, but he knows it isn’t. It’s bitterly ironic how his crying created the illusion of distraction. If he had any power over his body, he would have laughed at just how pitiful it was that his panic and mortification ended up taking his mind away from the thoughts that haunt his every woken second.

“Honey…” She calls out, lifting her fingers up to his chest and grabbing a handful of the hoodie he’s wearing.

“You’ve lost a _son_.”

Okay, read the room Pepp, ‘cause really, that just thrusts the knife in deeper.

Peter’s gone.

He closes his eyes tightly in a futile attempt to make it all go away. And he wished deeply it would. This _ache_ of longing will (should) kill him. The _ache_ of helplessness is twisting his gut and pulling it apart and he is left missing a future he didn’t get to _live_ , and that’s gonna make his heart burst.

The real proof Tony Stark has a heart isn’t it’s thu-thump, thu-thump.

It’s its ability to _shatter._

But there is this beautiful woman and a little princess that’s blissfully quiet right now, trying so very hard to pick up the pieces.

Pepper looks up to him and he turns to meet her, his eyes half lidded from tiredness and _pain_.

“It’s perfectly reasonable for you to grieve. It’s perfectly _acceptable_ for you and your body to try and find a way to get something so overwhelming out…This foreign concept that living your feelings is wrong or that it makes you incapable in some way is very outdated and quite frankly, very narrow-minded. Jesus, how anybody actually thought it could be a good idea to spread the absurdity that is this notion that keeping things bottled up is in any way healthy is beyond me.” The causality in her tone makes him feel blessed.

Blessed to be entwined by someone that isn’t wont to judge. To compare, to discard. To measure.

“And God baby, I hate that you’ve been induced in to thinking this makes you weak in any way. Patriarchy is a bitch, I swear - “

He may or may not have unintentionally tuned her out, but give him a break, he’s very very wasted out and he knows she seldom acts out on her (in reality, very skilful) ability to be long-winded just because she knows he’ll never actually _listen_ to it’s extent when she does.

“But anyway, my point is:”

And at this, she stops (probably to make sure he’s with her again) and braces herself on her elbows, and looks at him square in the eyes. Her’s are moist and red too. 

“Honey. It’s tragic…It’s something that most parents find too frightful to utter. He wasn’t biological, but relationships don’t have a _formula,_ they don’t initiate and _end_ in a clear, cut-through way. They extend to what we project on to others, lingering desires otherwise left unsaid and the affinity those we made bonds have. And baby, what happened? It was _devastating._ ” She reaches up and presses at the pulse point in his forehead. He closes his eyes.

“It’s okay to be devastated _._ ”

He feels his lips tremble, feels his tears threaten again behind his eyelids.

Pepper places herself in his chest again, wrapping an arm around his waist more tightly this time.

“And I’ll be here, trying my best to make it…well, simply liveable. I’m _here_. Every step of the way."

His sob is loud, but he doesn’t even bother to try and muffle it now.

He wraps his arms around her tightly, buries his face in her hair and hugs her tightly, kisses every inch of her face and tries very hard not to care that his face is snotty and wet and getting wetter. Kisses her hair, her nose, her cheeks and notices she’s got her’s wet too. Pepper’s hair somehow get’s tangled in his elbows and she gives an offended squeak.

“Well, gee, you’re welcome.” She raises an eyebrow and mockingly glares at him He takes it as his cue to make the situation a little bit less strained and heavy and loaded. To compose himself just a little bit. Manoeuvres her so that’s she’s lying on top of him and he can wrap his arms around her waist and torso with a proper hug, and plants a kiss on her collarbone. Looking up he drawls out a tired smile.

“Thank you.” It’s all he can manage.

When she smiles its angelic, even if there are traces of sadness in it.

“What for?”

“For…everything, I guess. For not being…Disappointed.” He winces because he hates admitting his self-loathing even though it’s a constant in his life (and maybe if he admitted it, he would have cut that thorn a long time ago, butwell, who knew, right?). He knows, he _knows_ she doesn’t see him that way.

But _still._

“Oh honey….” She gives him this tender look that melts his heart. 

“You were on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with baby powder all over your face. I’m sorry, but as far as concerns go, I thought you were having a meltdown from changing her diaper. You’re lucky I didn’t snap a picture.”

He feels a real smile tug its way through. Well, that just goes to show he really didn’t know any better.

It may be a long, long way from…anything. Wholeness, belonging, fulfilment. He may even be resigned to living the rest of his life with a dull, aching missing piece. Maybe this restlessness with time will shape itself in to something sharper. But for now, he’ll just hold the loves of his life closer and tighter, while trying to shake off some of the dust in his heart.

“I’m not cleaning this place up.”

X


End file.
